


Let Me Rest In Your Heart (I Belong Here With You)

by bafflinghaze



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale reading to Crowley, Contains Artwork!!, Crowley was Raphael before he fell, Fluff, Hellfire, Implied POC Aziraphale and Crowley, M/M, Mention of Genderfluid Crowley, Mild Angst, Mostly Rated PG except for the second-last scene, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale, Protective Crowley, Sad Crowley, Snek Crowley, Trans Newt (new name Ada Newton Pulsifier), Wing Kink, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bafflinghaze/pseuds/bafflinghaze
Summary: Crowley thinks he has time and he’s trying to take it slow. But when a new agent from Heaven comes down and monopolises Aziraphale's time—whom Aziraphale seems to like quite a lot—Crowley finds himself lost by the wayside.





	Let Me Rest In Your Heart (I Belong Here With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Alpha/brainstorming with [mistrali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali) ❤️❤️
> 
> Beta by [musingsofaretiredunicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofaretiredunicorn). ❤️❤️
> 
> Arists!
> 
>   * Ofir on [tumblr@scribblepuffs](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/scribblepuffss/). Rebloggable tumblr [artwork here!](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/post/188287318538/aziraphale-looks-down-and-takes-another-piece-of)
>   * and [Stan](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com) with their [social-media links](https://linktr.ee/stancils.stencils). Rebloggable tumblr [art post here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord)!
> 
> Thank you for your hard work and beautiful art 🤗🤗 ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Crowley wakes up when the sun warms his body. He’s in bed, alone, but that’s not unusual. Aziraphale tends not to sleep. With his eyes still closed, Crowley stretches his senses—and he sees him, like a bright star in the muddy clouds: Aziraphale is still in Crowley’s sitting room, no doubt having spent the night reading as he is wont to do.

Crowley sighs, eyes flickering open. They’ve gotten closer since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. They have dinners, Crowley drives slower, and Aziraphale stays up reading in the other room while Crowley sleeps.

He wants to go faster—but faster _where?_

Crowley gets dressed. He sneaks a look at Aziraphale from the doorway of the sitting room: the sunlight shafts and the bloom of the table lamp makes Aziraphale’s deep brown skin glow warm and soft, his white hair a bright halo. Aziraphale nudges his reading glasses, and he turns a page, fingers caressing the paper.

Crowley withdraws before he becomes jealous of a _book_. It’s been a long time since they held hands—when they swapped their bodies back—and that’s probably his own fault.

He quietly slips out of the flat for breakfast. When he returns, Aziraphale is seated in the exact same position, reading glasses sliding down again, bright soft angel in _Crowley’s flat_.

“Azzziraphale,” he says, dangling the brown paper bag with croissants.

Aziraphale startles. “Oh—_oh_.” He looks around. “Is it morning already?”

“If you want a longer night, we could take a trip up the North Pole,” Crowley says, like it’s nothing—because he could do it in a heartbeat.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley.” He closes his tome-of-a-book (just _looking_ at all the words-no-diagrams makes Crowley’s eyes squinty) and accepts the croissants. Aziraphale sniffs and a pleased smile blooms like the warm sun. “Should I thank you once again?”

“Better not,” Crowley says, for old time’s sake, as he takes a seat next to Aziraphale on the sofa. His mouth quirks up in fondness at Aziraphale’s snort.

Aziraphale takes out a croissant. “From that sweet bakery down the street?”

“Of _course_,” Crowley drawls. He sips at his own coffee and watches as Aziraphale tears the fresh croissant in half before nibbling.

The Thing in Crowley’s chest settles, wrapping itself in Aziraphale’s presence. They have time, Crowley knows. Upstairs and Downstairs have never moved particularly fast.

_Aziraphale doesn’t go very fast, either_, a sneaky little voice says. Crowley scowls inwardly.

“So, plans for the day, angel?” he says aloud.

“The bookshop, of course,” Aziraphale says with a smile.

“Of course,” Crowley echoes. He won’t ask if Aziraphale will be over tonight; it doesn’t matter, he’ll head over to the bookshop himself if Aziraphale doesn’t come. “How’s your book?”

Aziraphale lights up even more. “_Terribly_ interesting,” he says. One hand flutters in the air as he speaks, telling dastardly tales of queer pirates [1] that _almost_ engross Crowley as much as Aziraphale’s hands do.

Once Aziraphale finishes eating, and Crowley’s finished his coffee, Crowley offers to give Aziraphale a lift. Aziraphale agrees, as he does now, and once again, Crowley farewells Aziraphale at his bookshop without a single touch.

*

Gift under his arm, Crowley knocks on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop. The sky is growing dark, but Aziraphale’s bookshop seems supernaturally bright. He lets himself in, and his heart sighs as he sees Aziraphale trotting towards him.

“Lo, angel,” he greets.

Aziraphale wrings his hands. “Crowley!” he says, face flush. “I have a visitor at the moment, if you don’t mind. Ah, but, please, let me introduce you…”

Crowley tenses. “_Visitor_? It’s not _Gabriel_, is it?”

Aziraphale huffs. “You’ve never met them before, Crowley,” he says sternly. “They’re a new agent from Upstairs.”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. In snake form, he can open his jaws quite wide—well, he could do it in his human form too, if need be. “_Issss that ssooo?_” he stalks to the backroom.

In _their_ room, wine bottles are open and wine glasses are half empty. An unfamiliar angel sits on one of the chairs. They have a long white coat, long blond hair in heavy curls, and dark skin, though not as dark as Aziraphale’s.

“Ah, you must be the demon Crowley,” they say, standing up unsteadily. “I am Zariel. Azi told me all about you.”

_Azi_…! Something darkens in Crowley’s chest—_intruder, trespasser in _their_ space_. His eyes narrow as he sizes up Zariel. To his satisfaction, Zariel flinches, and their eyes cast away from Crowley’s.

Aziraphale steps into the room, and Crowley pulls a polite smile. Crowley takes a step back and glances at Aziraphale. “Angel, dear, you told them _all_ about me?”

Aziraphale flushes. “Not _all_. But I hope it’s alright—”

Actually, it doesn’t _feel_ alright, but Crowley gives Aziraphale a small smile nonetheless, just so that Aziraphale may relax.

Crowley looks back at Zariel, his smile comes more of a smirk. “I would shake your hand, if it weren’t for the—you know—_angel-demon_ thing.”

“I _completely_ understand,” Zariel says with clear relief. They sit back down, just a little further away, and pick up their wine glass. “This human elixir is _fascinating_,” they say, looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gives an embarrassed laugh, eyes ducking away from Crowley to Zariel. “It’s Zariel’s first day on Earth. I thought I’d show them some of its finer delights.”

“You’re _such_ a lovely Principality, Azi,” Zariel says, eyes fixed on Aziraphale. “Earth does not feel so daunting and scary anymore.”

Aziraphale bestows Zariel with a smile that has Crowley’s gut attempting to rip itself apart. “My dear,” Aziraphale says to Zariel, “You’ll learn your way around Earth in no time at all.” The two of them start talking about _angel_ things, comparing Earth with Upstairs with hardly a glance Crowley’s way.

_Who the fuck is Zariel?_ Crowley digs his fingernails into his palm. With a quick step forward, he places his gift on Aziraphale’s lap. The angels’ conversation halts, and Crowley quickly says, “Just dropped by to give you these, but I must get going.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together. “Oh, right now?”

Crowley takes out his phone. “Oh, _urgent_ text message,” he says—he can see that Aziraphale’s eyes are glazing over at the piece of modern technology. “Have to go _immediately_.”

Aziraphale pouts. “Oh, oh course. We won’t keep you.”

Crowley pulls a wry smile. “Have a good night, Aziraphale. Zariel.” He nods to both and departs from the room.

He can hear them speaking again: Aziraphale’s exclamations as he opens the box of truffles, and Zariel’s mild interest. His feet are heavy as he leaves the bookshop.

It takes him a few moments to adjust to the dimness outside—or perhaps it just _appears_ dark compared to the brightness of _two _angels in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

He’ll give it a few days, Crowley decides. It’s like—the Great Library of Alexandria, when Aziraphale submerged himself into all the texts and completely forgot about the rest of the world, including his own assignments from Upstairs. Aziraphale has another friend, and Crowley should be _glad for him_ that Zariel isn’t a jerk, and jealousy is for fucking tools and Anthony J. Crowley is too cool to fucking care.

His Bentley’s lights flash as he approaches it. _Back so soon?_ it seems to say. [2]

“I can do what I want,” he mutters to it, and slides onto the the driver seat to head back to his flat.

There’s nothing to _do_ in his flat without Aziraphale. Crowley ends up lying around in bed, contorting his body in vain to find a comfortable position, but his limbs feel _charged_, like they know they should be up and out and _doing stuff_.

It’s past midnight when Crowley _does_ receive a message—albeit not a text. A spark of fire diverts Crowley’s attention from the stars [3] to the ember-glowing assignment file from Downstairs. He glances at the file, and his lip curls in distaste and more than just a little hate. It’s barely been a month since _the debacle_, and Hell’s sending him _jobs_ to do?! He burns the dratted thing with a snap of his fingers. With the new reminder that he is fucking Fallen, Crowley rolls over so he can’t see the stars anymore and forces his corporeal form to fall unconscious.

* * *

At first, Aziraphale is just giving Zariel tips. He’s flattered that Zariel looks up to him, and he likes showing off his knowledge of Earthly things and seeing Zariel’s wonder and interest. It feels like he’s passing on the role to someone new and younger (ignoring the fact that he and Zariel are of the same age inasmuch as angels have age).

And then, Aziraphale receives a list of miracles to perform from Heaven. It looks exactly as before: crisp white paper, swirling golden words.

Aziraphale can’t help but feel...hopeful. Heaven would not have forgotten, so perhaps they have forgiven him, and everything will return to _normal_—well, as normal as it could be. And while the month or so of reading his books and just being with Crowley has been lovely, Aziraphale misses the good work he did with little miracles around Earth.

Thus, Aziraphale ends up going out _with_ Zariel to complete both of their various tasks together. It’s only when Zariel is called back to Heaven for an in-angel check-in, that Aziraphale finds himself alone in his bookshop...

...and realises that it’s been a week—more, even—since he’s last seen Crowley.

An odd feeling spreads across Aziraphale’s chest; it makes his hands fidget. In those days after the averted Apocalypse, they had seen each other every single day, and shared breakfast and dinner. Now without Zariel to distract him, Aziraphale misses Crowley something awful.

It’s still the early afternoon, but Aziraphale closes the bookshop without a care and catches the bus to Crowley’s apartment.

Knocking on the door produces nothing. With concern, Aziraphale undoes the lock with a quick miracle and heads inside. His brows draw together when he notices the drooping plants and their dryness. Crowley hasn’t watered them, which makes Aziraphale increasingly concerned. It’s not the fault of the plants, however, so Aziraphale waters them himself and consoles them with a murmured, _Crowley will be back, don’t you worry_.

The kitchen is untouched as always, and Aziraphale’s books are still scattered across the couch in the sitting room. If Aziraphale focuses, he can still smell the tiniest hint of buttery croissants and coffee.

Aziraphale finds Crowley in his bedroom, face half-smooshed on the pillows, and he lets out a sigh of relief. He walks over and perches on the edge of the bed. Crowley’s all delicate, dark hair spilling across the pillow. His brows are in a little furrow, mouth parted. His skin is perhaps cooler than usual, but it could simply be the low lighting.

Aziraphale runs a light hand over the blanket. _Oh, my dearheart_, he thinks. He wants to touch Crowley’s face; he wants to tuck Crowley’s hair behind his ear.

But...there’s no special occasion for it, so Aziraphale resists.

Crowley stirs. Gold-yellow eyes blink. “Argg—angel? Is that really you?”

Something tightens in Aziraphale’s chest. “Of course, dear. Were you expecting someone else?”

Crowley’s lips part, and his eyes close briefly. “Nothing.” With a groan, he sits up. “What can I do for you, angel?” he says, yawning.

_I missed you_, Aziraphale doesn’t say. Instead, he stands up, putting distance between them. “I simply wondered about your urgent task—”

Crowley grimaces. “Nah, ignored it, wasn’t worth it.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Oh. I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

Crowley blinks and he glances to the side. “Thanks.” He throws off the covers and stands up, stretching. “Peckish?”

“Well…”

Crowley picks up his phone from the bedside, blinking at the date and time. “Ah. That new place burger should have opened up down Warren Street. Shall we?”

Aziraphale fidgets. Oh, how he _wants_ to. But… “I _should_ get back to work, grab a quick lunch instead…”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “_Angel_,” he says. “You needn’t _ever_ open your bookshop if you don’t want to.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, not _that_. Heaven’s given me some new assignments!” He grins, wriggling his fingers. “It’s lovely doing blessings and miracles again.”

Crowley stares at him. His throat bobs. “_What_,” he rasps. “But…” He shakes his head. “What about _our side_? Hell _tried_ to send assignments—but we can’t _pretend_ All That never happened.”

“Of course _our side_,” Aziraphale says earnestly. “You’re my best friend, too. I just…” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley doesn’t approve, and it’s not that his disapproval is _uncommon_ [4] but it doesn’t feel like Crowley’s disapproved of anything lately.

Crowley sighs. “If _you_ truly want to…”

“I _do,_” Aziraphale says. “Zariel told me that the management has finally realised the growing human population, and so they’ve sent more agents down.” He smiles a little to himself. “I knew Zariel back Before, too. It’s nice to see a friendly face.”

Crowley makes an odd sound. “How lovely,” he says rather hollowly.

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you quite alright? Are you sick?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Why don’t we—go to that burger place. And I’ll help you with your little miracles to make up for it. For old time’s sake.”

Aziraphale beams. “Yes, let’s.”

Crowley is dressed at the snap of his fingers, and they go down to the Bentley. Crowley’s driving isn’t fast at all, and that gives Aziraphale the peace of mind to start telling Crowley all that has happened in the past week, from showing Zariel the London transportation system, to the London hospitals, to even showing them _human technology_.

“Did you put them off human modernities, then,” Crowley drawls, with that lilting, joking smile on his lips.

“_No_,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes. “I am perfectly capable of understanding the usefulness of such devices. I merely choose not to partake.”

Crowley snorts. “Well, we’re here now, Angel.” _Here_ being a side street off Warren, in a parking spot that became free right before their eyes.

The burger place is casual and homey, Aziraphale thinks with a little smile. A waiter with the most delicate heels serves them—Aziraphale looks with surprise at Crowley when Crowley orders a burger himself.

“Eating, dear?”

“_Naaah_,” Crowley says. “It’s a second one, for you. I _know_ you were indecisive between the two.”

“We _can_ come back,” Aziraphale says, as he fusses with his napkin on his lap.

Crowley shrugs and slouches back. “In case we don’t get a chance. You’re quite busy _and_ popular these days.”

Aziraphale is puzzled. “Surely not? I wouldn’t skip dining with _you_, Crowley.”

Crowley licks his lips, and his throat bobs. “Is that so.” He sighs, bordering on sad and resigned, and Aziraphale_ doesn’t know why_. “Zariel seems nice.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “But _Crowley_. Are you sure you’re well? Did you—have you been asleep the last week?”

Crowley waves a hand. “Yes, right, just a bit groggy from it all, don’t worry about me, angel.” He looks to the side. “Here comes our waiter now.”

And indeed, it is, and the waiter sets down two plates laden with burgers and fries. Aziraphale thanks him, and tucks in, while Crowley sips on his lemonade.

Aziraphale sighs. “Crowley, you _must_ try some.”

“It’s all yours,” Crowley says.

“Oh, but I—” Aziraphale pouts, makes his eyes round. He knows that Crowley knows that he knows that he’s doing it on purpose, but the result is the same regardless: Crowley huffs and leans forward.

“Feed me then, angel,” he says, forked tongue flicking over his lips.

It’s a bit difficult with a burger, but Azirphale manages by cutting off a small bite. He thinks about using a fork to deliver it to Crowley’s mouth, but...he doesn’t, instead using his fingers.

Crowley’s eyes darken, just a bit, as he takes the food from Aziraphale’s fingers, his tongue and lips _just_ brushing against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale’s hand hovers in the air—he can’t take his eyes off of Crowley. There’s an almost overwhelming feeling in the air—angelic, love and softness, with a hard edge that chafes against Aziraphale’s heart.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale starts.

The phone in Aziraphale’s pocket buzzes loudly.

Aziraphale’s hand darts back. “Oh, dear, oh dear,” he says, fumbling to clean his fingers as to retrieve his phone.

“You have a _phone_ now?” Crowley says, grinning.

Aziraphale flushes. “_In fact_, Zariel wanted one, and I obtained one in support. Heaven’s been using similarly-styled communicative devices. Hoverboards, too.” Gingerly, Aziraphale taps the phone and Zariel’s message pops up. “Oh, Zariel is back in London from their trip to France _already_. Quite the quick agent.” Aziraphale’s stomach twists as he reads more—“They’re at the bookshop. Waiting for me.” Aziraphale looks at the half-eaten food in despair, and looks back up at Crowley. “Oh, dear…”

Crowley’s grin disappears, his jaw tightening. He looks at Aziraphale with an expression that Aziraphale doesn’t understand.

“I’ll just—”

“You can take the food to go,” Crowley says with a sigh. He twirls his fingers. “Just a little something to keep them fresh—and I’ll get the bill.” All the food neatly packages itself into a pastel yellow box.

Gratitude overflows in Aziraphale’s heart. “Should I say thank you?” he teases, when he wants to say _so much more_—except, Crowley said they were _best friends_, not, not something _else_, really.

Crowley smirks. “Better not. Lift back?” he asks.

“If you please,” Aziraphale says.

“Always,” Crowley says, as he opens the Bentley door for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale tries not to flush at the sombre tone, eyes dipping as he gets into the car.

The drive back is faster, and Aziraphale’s phone is buzzing with questions from Zariel, and by the time Aziraphale manages to type out a reply, they’ve arrived at the bookshop.

Zariel is leaning against bookshop door, head bowed over their phone.

“I’m deeply sorry for the interruption to our lunch,” Aziraphale says earnestly, still seated inside the Bentley. “But I _will_ make it up to you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, and Aziraphale stares at it—he doesn’t know what Crowley wants. Hesitantly, he lays his own hand on top and—and the world doesn’t shift, and their bodies don’t swap. Instead, Crowley’s hand is cool and firm.

“You know where to find me,” he says. With a snap of his free hand, Aziraphale’s phone buzzes again. “I’ve just added myself to your contacts.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale suddenly remembers. “Next time, next time you can help me with the blessings.”

“Next time,” Crowley agrees. His hand drops from Aziraphale’s and rests back on the Bentley’s gear knob. He turns his head to look pointedly at Zariel.

Aziraphale smiles wryly. “Zariel is a quick learner, I won’t be hand-holding them for long.”

“You said you were also friends from Before,” Crowley says. “I’ll never keep you from that.” Aziraphale pauses until Crowley looks back at him.

“You’re too good for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He gets out of the Bentley and waves Crowley goodbye.

Zariel spots him immediately, and by the time Aziraphale’s finished greeting Zariel, the car is gone and Crowley with it.

* * *

A few days later, Crowley returns to bookshop in the evening to find it closed _and_ empty. He searches inside: the shelves, the backroom, and even the upstairs flat.

Fear grips his heart, irrational as he knows it is—but he can’t go through that _fire_ again. He presses his lips together tightly so they don’t tremble and pushes his demonic senses as far as he can—

—and _oh fuck_ the relief makes him weak when he senses Aziraphale still within London without a single touch of danger or fear in his aura. He thinks about heading to the backroom to wait for Aziraphale’s return, except he senses another angelic aura that must be Zariel. And when Crowley focuses, he can sense where their auras are mingling, just a little.

A knock on the bookshop door has Crowley scowling. He stalks across the shop floor and flings the door open.

“What do you _want?_” he hisses.

The human boy standing there is barely grown, and he winces, looking down at his feet. “I was looking for Mr. Fell? I heard he would…”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. “Apologies,” he says. “Mr. Fell is away, but come on in.”

The boy hesitates. “You’re...Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley smirks. “Famous, am I?”

The boy quirks his lip in response, and follows Crowley to the upstairs flat that Aziraphale has for such guests, and rummages into Aziraphale’s hot cocoa. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Crowley asks.

The boy nods glumly. “My parents think I’m just out for dinner with some mates.”

Except, the boy’s clearly alone.

Aziraphale’s better at this, with his comforting _my dears_ and fatherly-gay-gentleman aura, but Aziraphale’s currently off with fucking Zariel, isn’t he? But the boy’s barely an adult, and Crowley’s not too bad conversing with children, so he takes a deep breath, and asks, “Now, what is the matter?”

The anxieties and thoughts and fears spill out of the boy, and Crowley subtly heats up the cocoa to keep it comfortingly warm.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says.

“It fucking sucks,” Crowley agrees.

And the boy finally sighs, all drained out.

“You don’t need to come out,” Crowley says. “You don’t _owe_ anyone.”

The boy sighs. “Yeah. Right.”

Crowley hums, and decides on a little miracle that Aziraphale would approve of.

A few moments later, the boy’s phone rings. He glances at it, and his entire face brightens. 

Crowley waves a hand. “Go on.”

“Hey fam,” the boy says in the phone. His eyes widen. “What? Really? I’ll be right there!” He ends the call and gulps down the rest of his cocoa before jumping to his feet.

Crowley rises smoothly. “Have fun, keep safe,” he says.

The boy flushes. “He’s just a friend, Mr. Crowley. But thanks.”

Crowley smirks, ushering the boy out. Just a street down, the boy meets his ‘friend’. A lucky coincidence, they think.

Crowley closes up the bookshop and returns home to his empty flat, exhausted.

*

The weather’s fucking awful and dark with patches of rain, just like Crowley’s mood. He sprawls on the bench in St. James’s park, facing the murky grey water, and half-heartedly throws corn at his feet for the flock of ducks and occasional pelican. He’s not alone, _technically_, but he’s just traded dreary flat for dreary park.

_Angel stuff_, his brain keeps thinking. Aziraphale and Zariel talk about _angel stuff_. Well, Crowley used to be an angel too! Before the Fall, before Before.

But he and Aziraphale have never talked about Before together, and that’s Crowley’s fault. Aziraphale’s curious, he’s asked previously. But how could Crowley admit who he had been, and exactly how Far he had Fallen—just for asking _questions_? His hands—currently washed out and dull like a Class F star in a human photograph—had crafted the skies. His hands had the power to help humans, and then She turned around and pushed him off the Heavens.

Warm-sun-glow-bright tickles the back of Crowley’s senses, and he immediately sits up, head turning. He stumbles to his feet when he sees Aziraphale. It’s like ice-water when he sees Zariel.

Because—St. James’s Park is _their_ thing. _Fuckfuckfuck_, Crowley should disappear before Aziraphale spots him—

“Crowley!”

—Too late.

Grimacing, Crowley turns back to the two angels. Aziraphale is trotting towards him with a smile; Zariel is hanging back (_good_, Crowley thinks).

“What a coincidence!” Aziraphale says, panting a little as he stops in front of Crowley. He beams, and Crowley simply _has_ to smile back.

“There’s a new ice cream cart,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll treat you!”

Zariel is not quite looking at Crowley, so Crowley goes, “Not quite the weather for it, though—”

Aziraphale beams, and the clouds part and sunlight bathes the park.

“...I stand corrected,” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes.

“Not that you cannot have ice cream in _any_ weather,” Aziraphale says.

They head to the ice cream cart, Crowley and Zariel walking on either side of Aziraphale. “So, I’ve already tried their milk chocolate and strawberry ice cream flavours,” Aziraphale is saying. “Matcha, and cookies and cream too.” His eyes shine, lighting up as they approach the ice cream cart. The cart is decorated with pastel stripes and is staffed by a young woman, whose eyes crinkle as she sees Aziraphale.

“Mr. Fell,” she says. “You have company.”

Aziraphale smiles. “My dear, meet my best friend, Crowley, and my dear friend, Zariel.”

_Best friend_, Crowley thinks, half warm and half disappointed. He leans forward over the glass. “Ma’am,” he says, “If you many, one scoop of everything for my angel?”

The woman’s eyes widen, and she smiles. “Of course.”

“And whatever Zariel would like,” Crowley adds, sliding over his credit card. He steps back, and finds Aziraphale looking at him with shining eyes and a pleased smile.

“Really, dear, you don’t have to,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “It’s no bother.” He slides a glance at Zariel. “Perhaps you should help them in their choices.”

Aziraphale does so, but it seems not even Zariel can stop Aziraphale from chatting with the ice cream woman about a hundred-and-one-things relating to ice cream and food and flavours.

Crowley gives Zariel a look as they gingerly walk over to him. Crowley rubs his jaw in distaste at the thought of conversation. “How goes _miracling_?” he asks.

“Very well, with Azi’s help,” Zariel says. “Thank you for your concern, Demon Crowley.”

Crowley tries not to gag. “Yeah, right,” he mutters. “And London?” he says more loudly.

Zariel starts talking a little more avidly, but Crowley’s barely listening, most of his attention on Aziraphale placing multiple cups of ice cream on a miracled tray. Zariel, mercifully, shuts up when Aziraphale approaches.

Aziraphale holds out an ice cream cup to Crowley. “Azuki and black sesame. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Crowley shrugs noncommittally. He has a taste of it, yes, while Aziraphale’s attention is fixed on him in anticipate. But in the end, as always, he places it back on the tray, and takes the tray of ice cream to hold while Aziraphale eats, tongue darting out at each sinful taste.

“_Oh_,” Zariel says suddenly. They hurry away from Crowley and Aziraphale to a man whose gait is unsteady. “Are you alright, sir?” Zariel asks. There’s the lightest sounds of harps in the air as they cast a miracle healing.

A sour taste forms in Crowley’s mouth.

The man straightens. “Oh, I feel much better now.”

“Have a good day!” Zariel says, and the man returns the thanks and continues on his way.

Crowley glances back at Aziraphale, but Aziraphale is watching Zariel with a fond smile.

“That was Good of you,” Aziraphale praises Zariel.

Zariel smiles. “It’s what angels _do_,” they say. “And I learnt from the best.”

_A perfect angel_, Crowley thinks, jaw tightening. He feels utterly invisible when Zariel launches into their upcoming blessings-to-do and Aziraphale responds in kind. _Zariel_ gets praise for Healing. If Crowley does it, did it, he has to be careful to avoid Hell’s reprimand.

Watching, up close, how engaged Aziraphale is in his conversation with Zariel makes Crowley realise that he’s only Aziraphale’s “best friend” by _circumstance_. Six-thousand years of mostly shared locations, with just them or ephemeral humans, Crowley was simply the best _option_ for a companion.

And yet, in the space of a _day_—oh, that first day when Crowley went to Aziraphale’s bookshop to find _them_—Zariel has taken over. They and Aziraphale share so much more Crowley. And Zariel is Good. A Good companion. Even, a Good someone for Aziraphale to love without retribution from either Side.

Meanwhile, Crowley’s too much Effort. _What happened to Our Side?_ he thinks, chest tightening and eyes aching. He feels like a fucking glorified table holding Aziraphale’s food, a table who should be grateful that he’s privy to the moments between Aziraphale and Zariel.

“...Demon Crowley? Are you alright?” Zariel asks. _Zariel_ asking, and that makes Crowley so angry and dark, and he really, _really_ needs to get away from Aziraphale before Crowley starts _polluting_ him.

“Simply my afternoon naptime,” Crowley lies. He hands the diminishing tray of ice cream to Zariel, because _of course_ they would hold it for Aziraphale. “Keep the credit card,” he tells Aziraphale. “And treat yourself and Zariel to whatever you wish.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together in concern. “My dear…”

And Crowley’s heart aches. He yearns, _craves_ Aziraphale’s concern and comfort, but at the same time, he wants him _happy_, not worried, and Aziraphale is happ_ier_ when he’s with Zariel.

So Crowley throws Aziraphale a smirk. “You know how I am with sleeping,” he says dismissively. “Enjoy the rest of your day, angel—s.”

Sunlight shines around Aziraphale, but the moment Crowley leaves Aziraphale’s sphere of influence, it’s dark again, and it’s hailing like fuck.

Crowley’s alone, and there’s no one to hold a wing over his head.

* * *

Crowley returns to Aziraphale’s bookshop the next day, because he _always_ comes back, he has to _try_. It’s afternoon, but the shop is closed. Crowley has chocolates and wine and is hoping for a quiet evening with Aziraphale, and perhaps the chance to give an apology or two.

However, once inside the bookshop, he can hear Aziraphale chattering with Zariel.

“—I’ll bring one of the hoverboards down next time,” Zariel is promising. “It’s quite amazing, almost like flying but without the effort.”

“Oh, I don’t know, where would we even _practice_?” comes Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley can imagine his hands fluttering in mild concern.

“What about St. James’s Park?” Zariel immediately says.

“Oh, oh, yes—”

Crowley steps further into the bookshop, noting Aziraphale’s left-open book and cold cup of cocoa. He just stands there, a few metres away from the backroom, waiting, _waiting._

But the two angels keep talking, and Crowley cannot bear to listen any longer. If Aziraphale _really_ wanted to, he would have noticed Crowley’s aura. Unless Aziraphale’s busy. Unless Aziraphale’s too busy for Crowley.

Anger and regret and a deep resignation fills him. He should have made a move on Aziraphale earlier—except he’s already too fast, what he wants is too much, what he _is_ underlies every damned problem.

Hating himself, Crowley places his boxed chocolates and wine onto Aziraphale’s reading desk and leaves without saying hello to Aziraphale.

He’s halfway home when he feels a tug at his chest. He wrinkles his nose—it’s a tug of an outdated summoning. It continues with insistence, though, all the way back to his flat, so with a roll of his eyes—and deciding this is as good a distraction as any—Crowley snaps himself into existence to the summoning circle.

“Oh _finally_,” says Anathema Device, nudging her glasses up. “Are demons typically late?”

Crowley sighs, steps out of the summoning circle because he feels like it, and leans back against the nearest wall. “What do you want?” He cuts his eyes to Newton Pulsifier, who looks like he’s about to faint.

“That—I—right—” he’s muttering.

Anathema sighs, shooting a fond smile at Newton. “I heard rumours that you’re good at matters of _gender_, demon Crowley,” she says. “Ada, why don’t you two have a chat?”

_Ada_, Crowley thinks. Ada Lovelace. Indeed.

“Ada Newton Pulsifer,” Ada squeaks out.

“Of course,” Crowley says, feeling like a _them_ suddenly, and feeling valued: this is something _they_ can do. Ada looks like she could still faint, however. “Perhaps it’s best if the witch stays. I’m sure you have fainting salts at hand.”

They move to a quaint table, and Anathema makes them all tea.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Ada professes. “I didn’t even realise anyone could _change_ their gender—”

“That information can be easily found on the human’s Internet,” Crowley says, sipping their tea. Camomile, though it doesn’t seem to be calming Ada very much.

Ada bows her head. “Computers just seem to...break around me. But I love them so _much_.”

Crowley pulls a face at the word _love_.

“I believe the aura mismatch has been disrupting the electronics,” Anathema says proudly.

Crowley hums. “So what is the problem?” they ask, looking between the two. It’s obvious that the two _are_ both smitten with each other; Anathema is far from kicking Ada out, and Anathema’s a smart witch.

“What do I _do_?” Ada admits. “I don’t know _anything_ about being a girl—a woman,” she quickly admends. “I’ll get it wrong. What if Anathema’s _wrong_?”

“Screw rules,” Crowley says empathetically. “Leave that shit to management. Be yourself. Do what _you_ want. There’s nothing more to being a girl than _feeling_ in your soul that you are,” they continue. 

Ada flushes. “But. The, you know,” she waves a vague hand at her body. “And clothes, and make-up, and…”

“Your witch can help,” Crowley says, looking pointedly at Anathema. “As for your body, you _don’t_ have to change it. But you _can_.” With a snap of their fingers, a small pile of booklets appears on the table—this is far from the first conversation like this Crowley has ever had. They try not to think about Aziraphale and the tag-team they make down at Soho. “Analog information,” they say drily, “That won’t explode on you.” 

They talk some more, and at some point, Anathema leaves to intercept the Them, who are soon to come over on a surprise visit. _Seer in the making_, Crowley thinks, and notes to themself to get Anathema to write a book for Aziraphale.

At the end of their conversation with _Ada_, Ada gives a huge sigh.

“You’re not so scary for a demon. I thought it’ll be like _Satan_,” Ada admits.

Crowley stares at her. “You _saw_ me at the airbase, too.”

Ada flushes. “I suppose. Was a bit occupied, though. Where’s your—your other person?”

“Oh, busy,” Crowley says as though it’s of no consequence.

Ada doesn’t suspect a thing, and turns a fond smile to the window, outside which they can see Anathema playing with the three kids. “I hope I have that with Anathema one day.” She laughs. “What’s my _mum_ going to think of this?”

“Better not hope,” Crowley says a little sharply. “Don’t leave it up to Anyone Else. Do it yourself.”

And that is the stickler, isn’t it? Crowley can’t just _hope_ that Aziraphale likes them.

The door opens, and Anathema and the kids and the dog tumble inside. One of those kids is Warlock.

“Say hello to Mr. Crowley,” Anathema is reminding the children. A mumble of greetings follows.

Warlock, however, stares. “_Nanny?_”

Aziraphale’s absence cuts keenly. “Warlock, my dear dastardly child,” Crowley says.

“You—you just _left_.”

Anathema’s brows rise. “Perhaps the two of your should have a private chat.” She ushers Crowley and Warlock back out into the front garden. They take a seat on the bench.

Warlock’s staring at them. “Did you run away with Brother Francis?”

Crowley chokes. “No, it was…” _It was because you weren’t _you. Except Warlock’s always been Warlock, hasn’t he? Even if he was prone to brattiness of late—which was perfectly demonic, to be honest.

“Mum wanted a trip back to where I was born,” Warlock says. “Did you know me and Adam have the same birthday?”

Crowley snorts. “I do, very well.”

“So you left and...came here?”

“You’re eleven now, Warlock, much too old for a Nanny,” Crowley says. “Much too cool for one, too.”

Warlock smirks. “Yeah? That was—_you_ at my birthday, wasn’t it? I didn’t realise it was Brother Francis without his teeth at first. _Best_ birthday ever, Nanny.”

Crowley smirks back. “Food fights usually are.”

Warlock grows more quiet. “Nanny? Or should I call you Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley shrugs. “They’re both me. Though I’ve only been Nanny to you.”

“Heh. Does that mean I’m the _only_ one who gets to call you Nanny? _SWEET_,” he says. “Will you visit?”

“Just write a note to me and burn it,” they say, smirking. “I’ll get to me.”

“_Awesome_,” Warlock says.

Anathema pops her head out. “Done?” she asks. “Warlock, come help chop up the vegetables.”

Warlock pulls a face, but he heads in when Adam beckons him from behind Anathema’s skirts.

Crowley rises more slowly from the bench.

“We’re making chicken soup,” Anathema says. “Stay for dinner, Mr. Crowley?”

“Nah, got plans.”

Anathema smirks. “With the angel Aziraphale, no doubt.”

“Yes, right,” Crowley rolls their—_his_—eyes. “Be evil, kids,” he yells through the door, “And fuck management!” He allows himself a little satisfied smirk at the cacophony of farewells, and pops himself back to his flat.

The flat is so, so dark and sterile after Anathema’s cottage, and in comparison to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He runs fingers through his hair, stomach feeling unpleasant.

Crowley starts a little when he realises that his hair has grown, waves of dark strands tumbling down past his shoulders. He thinks for a moment about shortening them again, but—_why not_? Just because human men have been increasingly cutting their hair shorter and shorter doesn’t mean _Crowley_ must. So instead, he miracles up an old hair piece and ties his hair into a familiar half hair-bun.

Impulsively, he takes the Bentley to Aziraphale’s bookshop again. The lights are on, and Crowley can sense two angels, but—Crowley’s going to make _nice_ with Zariel.

—and _nope_, Crowley stops himself right at the shop door, and he’s _listening_ into their conversation, and suddenly feels like a _stalker_. Just because Zariel is Aziraphale’s friend doesn’t mean they could be Crowley’s friend, nor _should_ they be. And _damn_ it, doesn’t that mean Crowley should make friends with people who _aren’t_ Aziraphale?—well, there’s the old lady in the flat below him, some of the bakers that make Aziraphale’s favourite croissants, and the various plant dealers for his garden—and Anathema Device certainly _acts_ as though they’re friends. 

Feeling awfully foolish and annoyed at how _desperate_ he feels, Crowley backs away and drives back home. The Bentley plays _The Show Must Go On_, and Crowley could curse his car to Hell, because it _does not help_. It’s _not_ going to end like that, not in heartache, not in a failed romance. Aziraphale has said that he’s on Crowley’s side, _their _side, and Crowley believes him. He must.

...But it’s hard to keep _believing_. Afterall, Crowley’s a demon because he _doesn’t_.

He can’t sleep: the stars projected onto his bedroom ceiling _taunt_ him rather than comfort. He paces his flat, but it’s so empty and cavernous and he can’t bear to look at the abandoned books on the sofa. Sometime around 2am in the morning, Hell sends him yet another message. Crowley throws it under the tap and runs water over it until it disintegrates.

Somehow, Crowley ends up scrolling on his phone, through lists of libraries around the world, top most expensive restaurants, and holiday houses for sale in Britain. He looks up chocolate flavours, experimental wines, and anything sparkly. All the while, he’s curled up on Aziraphale’s sofa in his sitting room, even though Aziraphale’s presence has long faded away.

_Aziraphale would like this. Aziraphale would like this. Aziraphale would like this_.

But Aziraphale isn’t here.

* * *

Gifts undoubtedly from Crowley occasionally appear around Aziraphale’s bookshop, but Aziraphale cannot find a trace of the demon himself. When he sees that his old tin of cocoa has been replaced, accompanied by a tin of pistachio and clotted cream biscuits, he feels knocked out the force of feeling in his chest.

All of a sudden, Aziraphale desperately misses Crowley. Misses his smirk, his fond smile, his lovely eyes, even if hidden behind dark glasses. The air feels _empty_ without him, the shop feels darker, and Aziraphale feels lost and floating.

When Zariel comes round again, it takes all of Aziraphale’s effort to keep himself from snapping out. He uncharitably wishes Zariel would find _another_ friend to unload upon.

The moment Zariel leaves, Aziraphale rushes out of the bookshop. But the thought of going to Crowley’s flat is too overwhelming. What if Crowley doesn’t actually want him around? What if Crowley’s lack of presence is a _message_?

So instead, Aziraphale ends up at seated in a chair at his local barber’s and facing his own confused face in the mirror. 

“I don’t know what to _do_,” he confesses.

His barber, Antonio the Third, hums in commiseration. “This is about your Crowley, yes? Did he like the new cologne?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to remember—it was hardly over a month ago, but that Apocalypse business had felt quite dramatic while it was happening. Aziraphale slumps as he remembers. “He noticed, but never said how he found it,” he says mournfully.

“_Noticed_,” Antonio grins over Aziraphale’s shoulder in the mirror. “Why not try something a little more visual?” he suggests. “A new style. Undo that top button. He’ll never resist you.”

Aziraphale flushes. “That’s _not_ what I was aiming for!” _Too fast_, much too fast.

“Apologies,” Antonio immediately says. He perfunctually fiddles with the cut of Aziraphale’s hair. “Has something changed recently?”

“_Well_…” A lot of things, but most recently, there is only—“an old friend came to visit.”

“Ahhh,” Antonio looks at Aziraphale in the mirror reflection. “Your Crowley is perhaps jealous? A friend who knows your past, yet he does not?”

Aziraphale stills. Frowns. “But, I haven’t been _back_ for so long, not for more than a _visit_. Crowley—well, Crowley has known me _now_, and for 6000 years—er, I mean, 60—er, 16—years!”

Antonio politely ignores the slip-up [5]. “Perhaps so, but the heart can be irrational,” he says wisely. “If you do not speak to Mr. Crowley, you will never know.”

“But Zariel—my old friend—they keep suggesting things to _do_ together, and—” Aziraphale sighs.

“Then surely this Zariel shall understand if you have your _own_ plans,” Antonio says. “Which you _do_. Stand your ground.”

“But I don’t—_oh_. Right.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I can do that. Do you think I should try a perfume instead? Something natural. Floral?”

Antonio smiles. “I have just the thing.” And so he does.

Just as Aziraphale’s about to leave, his phone buzzes.

It’s Zariel again.

“Now, now,” Antonio says sternly. “Tell them you have plans. Here, let me—”

A little bewildered, Aziraphale hands the phone to Antonio, who types out a message.

“Is this good?” Antonio asks, handing back the phone.

_Sorry that I can’t help you right now, I have prior plans. Can we meet tomorrow instead? _ it says. Aziraphale nods. He hits send and feels a relief.

“Now go win Mr. Crowley back,” Antonio says. “Best of luck!”

Buoyed, Aziraphale heads over Crowley’s place immediately. Just outside the door, he even remembers to turn his phone off—he’s _not_ going to have Zariel’s messages interrupt their time—and heads inside.

“Crowley, dear?” he calls out. He notes that the plants are watered, and he passes by Crowley’s statue with a roll of his eyes. He soon finds Crowley out in the sitting room. In place of the coffee table in front of the sofa that Aziraphale usually sits at is a huge heated mat, right on top is a giant black and gold and red snake.

“_Oh_.” Aziraphale steps forward gingerly. He doesn’t get to see this form very often—it’s a hundred, nay, a thousand times rarer than the times he gets to see Crowley’s eyes.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Aziraphale faces off with a large snake Crowley. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


Crowley’s eyes open, and they’re so much more gold-yellow in this form, so much larger and so much more luminous. His tongue flickers out. “_Aaaaangel,_” he says. “_Don’t look_—”

“Your scales are _wonderful_,” Aziraphale gushes. “The glitter of chainmail could _never_ stand in comparison. They look so _smooth_, like running water, oh—” His hands flutter. He wants to—feel. But he _shouldn’t_, that would be a breach of boundaries. Aziraphale threads his fingers together in an effort to stop.

Crowley’s wide eyes blink at him, and he starts to uncoil, extending his head right up against Aziraphale.

“What—Crowley—”

“_You can ttttouch_,” he hisses. His forked tongue darts out. “_Sssssmellsssss gooood._”

Aziraphale flushes for a multitude of reasons. “My barber helped me.” He reaches out and lays a hand on the top of Crowley’s head—and it _is_ smooth, and cool, and he can feel Crowley’s soul humming just against the skin, barely contained in the form.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, stroking Crowley’s scales. Crowley’s eyes close, and his head shifts into Aziraphale’s touch. “You’ve been so good and I haven’t yet repaid.”

“_Not good_,” Crowley hisses, one eye opening. He slithers back onto his mat, and with an edge of his tail, curls Aziraphale with him too. “_Not an exsssschange.”_

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale huffs. “You’re my—you’re _you_. And Zariel should take some of their own initiative! I miss our dinners and our lunches.” _I miss you_, he doesn’t say. He swallows a lump in throat, starts pulling his hands back.

“_Then ssssstaay_.” Crowley shifts closer to him.

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “I will,” he says. He trails his hands down Crowley’s body—it’s a texture that fascinates him.

“I know I’ve been absent,” Aziraphale finally says, hands going still. “It’s not fair, I mean it.” He shakes his head. “Zariel is _much_ too excitable.” Aziraphale leans forward in a half hug around Crowley’s coils. “Are you well?”

Crowley hisses, and nudges Aziraphale to look at the couch, upon which there is suddenly a stack of books.

“_Read?_”

Aziraphale gives a light-headed laugh. “Very well.” He flips through the books, and selects an astronomy text. He finds himself flipping to Alpha Centauri, and starts reading out loud. “Alpha Centauri is the closest star system to Earth. It is in fact composed of three stars: Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman, and Proxima Centauri—Alpha Centauri A, B and C respectively. From the naked eye, Alpha Centauri A and B appear as though a single star…”

Crowley makes a deep rumbling sound much bigger than his physical form and curls up around Aziraphale, with his head tucked right under the book in Aziraphale’s hands. Smiling fondly, Aziraphale continues to read.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Crowley curled up around Aziraphale, while Aziraphale reads out loud. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


*

Presently, Aziraphale stops reading and Crowley changes back to a human corporation while Aziraphale looks politely away.

“Sushi?” Crowley says in his human-shaped voice.

Aziraphale turns back, and his heart stutters. Crowley’s hair is longer than last time—hair doesn’t grow that _quick_, does it? Aziraphale thinks desperately. It reminds him of when they first met. It reminds him of all the feelings he has ever felt for Crowley. His tongue darts out, and his eyes dip to Crowley’s lips. Oh, how he could worship that mouth— 

Crowley takes a half step closer. “Angel,” he says, his voice immeasurably soft.

“My dear—” Aziraphale’s head starts buzzing with a hundred what-ifs, of what could happen, of what could go wrong. His hands start to twitch, while the rest of him freezes. If he could just _lean in!_ But he—he just _can’t_ and his body won’t cooperate!

Crowley winces and steps back. “Too fast,” he mutters lowly, but Aziraphale hears.

“No—_no_,” Aziraphale tries to say. “Not too fast. Let’s—let’s go to sushi.” His body moves, but it’s away from Crowley, to the door.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to do, when Crowley’s face falls even more. Crowley strides past Aziraphale and punches the button for the lift down. 

The lift is a smaller space. Aziraphale could just—he grits his teeth. Just _touch_. How could he have touched Crowley-as-a-snake so freely, and yet be so unable to look Crowley-as-a-human in the eye?

_Maybe it’s the lips. Maybe it’s the hair. Maybe it’s those fingers_, Aziraphale thinks helplessly.

“Be at ease, angel,” Crowley says gruffly. “I’m not going to do anything.” He looks away, and now _Aziraphale’s_ face falls.

Crowley leads Aziraphale out to the Bentley and opens the door for him. “I spoke with the witch a few days ago,” Crowley says casually.

Aziraphale blinks. “You mean the one you hit with your car?” he asks, as he gets into said car.

“Right, yes, her,” Crowley says. “Seems to be a seer. Thought you might want to have a chat with her—it’s not a common opportunity.” He slants a look at Aziraphale. “Good excuse to check-up on the used-to-be-Antichrist too, for Upstairs, don’t you think?” He looks away and shifts the car into motion. “Saw Warlock too, the dear kid.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale says. “I’m _not_ going back to Heaven! At least not until they apologise! But I will speak to Anathema—if you come with me? It’ll be a trip.” He darts a glance at Crowley.

Crowley’s head whips to Aziraphale. “Yes-yes-yes, of course.”

Feeling pleased and relieved, Aziraphale turns back to face the front of the car as Crowley drives down London. “Oh, there’s a parking spot there!” Aziraphale points out, and the Bentley slides right in.

The chef greets them as they enter, and a waiter takes them to their customary table. Aziraphale orders immediately, and once the waiter leaves, he turns back to Crowley.

“So, Crowley, what have you been doing?”

“Oh, this and that,” Crowley says. “Bought some new books, stocked the kitchen back at the flat.”

“And all your gifts,” Aziraphale says, remembering the bottles of wine, boxes of chocolates, bouquets of flowers, the new can of cocoa and biscuits, and the most dear little pair of wing-shaped earrings.

Crowley reddens a little. “Yes. Them.” He starts telling Aziraphale about his various shopping trips, and the humans who think they know how to choose gifts better than himself, which soon derails into a sighing rant about planned obsolescence, which is extremely unhelpful for immortal beings such as themselves.

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, and smiles as the food arrives, and continues smiling as he eats. “A little...luck would keep anything functioning if you wished, Crowley,” he has to say.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “It’s the principle of the thing!” he says. “And it’s—”

“Hm, have a bite,” Aziraphale slides in, holding a piece up sushi with his chopsticks.

Crowley leans forward and takes it right away. And then he stops, as though he’s just realised what he’s done.

“How is it?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s eyes narrow as he chews. “You’re sneaky angel,” he finally says once he’s swallowed. “I enjoy you eating food more than myself.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks heat up. “Is that so? Gabriel thinks eating sullies the body.”

Crowley snorts, loud. “_That_ arse? He’s gotten _so_ much worse,” Crowley adds in a mutter.

“Did you meet him before? Gabriel?”

Crowley startles. “Oh, um, quite so. Gabriel going ‘round messaging and all.”

Aziraphale frowns. “He hasn’t been a messenger since Before,” he says, thinking back. “Gabriel’s management now.’

“Yes. Well, _fuck_ management,” Crowley says emphathetically.

“Oh—of course, you were an angel Before. Did we know each other before?”

“You would have remembered me, don’t you think?” Crowley says, glancing away. “Anyway, being a demon is _much_ more fun.”

Aziraphale berates himself for bringing it up. “Done any tempting lately then?”

Crowley snorts. “_Nah_.”

Aziraphale quickly changes the topic—“Why don’t you get a pet snake? They’re very cute.”

Crowley reddens dramatically. “Really, angel?”

...and Aziraphale berates himself _again_ as he reddens in response. “Or more plants! How about plants for the bookshop?”

“Wet things around your books? Making the bookshop more attractive to humans? I wouldn’t be so destructive.”

Aziraphale deflates. “Right.” He eats the rest of his sushi morosely at first, but the delicate and sharp flavours soon bring him back.

“But we can acquire more plants for the flat,” Crowley says. “Make our own little Eden.”

Aziraphale snorts, half a smile on his face. “Yes, we could. Would an apple tree fit as well?”

“I’m a demon, you’re an angel. We’ll _make_ it fit.”

Aziraphale’s smile widens.”Oh, the humans won’t notice _at all_ when their building suddenly grows in size.”

Crowley hums and slouches back. “Or, we could move. The seaside’s nice enough.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “_Together_?”

Crowley gives him a cross look. “Nah, forget it, you have all your blessings these days…”

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh. Of course.”

“_Or_ it could be a holiday house. Well, if you want to. No pressure.” Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale looks down and takes another piece of sushi. He can imagine it—a quaint cottage, wood oak shelves and wide windows and Crowley in the garden while Aziraphale sits and read—but Aziraphale’s heart pitter-patters. It feels too fast. And—and he loves Soho. Well. Mostly. And London has so many restaurants. He’ll miss it all. “Maybe...in the future?” he tries.

Crowley immediately nods. “Of course, of course.” He looks at Aziraphale’s plate. “Shall I call the waiter for dessert?”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Please.”

*

When they return back to Crowley’s flat, Crowley heads off to his bedroom, while Aziraphale curls up on the couch with the new books. To Aziraphale’s welcome surprise, Crowley soon returns with an armful of blankets and pillows, and dumps them all on the heating mat still in front of the couch.

“Ah, don’t mind me, angel,” Crowley says, as he curls up as though he’s still a snake on the bedding at Aziraphale’s feet. His glasses are off, yellow eyes glinting in the reading light Aziraphale has on. Crowley yawns and snuggles deeper under the blankets. He hums, and says, “Night, angel.”

There’s a long moment where Aziraphale wonders if he should _join_ Crowley. But he doesn’t want to sleep—lying down and doing _nothing_, it makes him fidget even more. So instead, Aziraphale turns back to the books.

*

The next morning, Aziraphale notices when Crowley wakes up, raising his head and blinking groggy eyes at Aziraphale. Crowley leans in, and for a heart-stopping moment, Aziraphale thinks about—oh, kissing him? Pushing back those strands of hair behind his ear?

But then Crowley straightens, daywear replacing his sleepwear with a snap of his fingers.

“Be right back,” he says, and so Aziraphale tries to focus back on his book, all the while straining his senses for Crowley.

Aziraphale snaps his book shut when Crowley returns with fresh pain au chocolat and coffee.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says.

“Angel,” Crowley says.

And Aziraphale eats—he feeds Crowley a small piece he’s ripped off the pain au chocolat—and it feels just like how it used to be.

A sense of maudlin grows when Aziraphale finishes eating. For at this point, Aziraphale would _leave_, but he doesn’t want to.

Grimacing, he admits, “I’m meeting Zariel today.”

Crowley’s eyes shutter. “Lift to wherever you’re meeting them, then?”

“_Crowley_. I _will_ return tonight.” Aziraphale waits till Crowley looks back at him. “I _will_. I mean it. You’re—you’re worth it.” Aziraphale’s hands become clammy. “You’re my _dear_ Crowley, and no one can compare.”

His confession is absolutely worth it when Crowley flushes, lips curving up.

“Then I’ll make dinner plans,” he says, that _lovely lovely lovely_ fond smile on his face.

Aziraphale beams. “Wonderful.” He daringly pats Crowley on the arm. “I’m looking forward to it.” He takes his hand off Crowley’s arm a moment later, but his elation continues. It’s so _thrilling_ to see Crowley; Aziraphale cannot imagine how he could have gotten so wrapped up in Zariel in the first place.

*

The answer is, that Zariel is friendly and charming and charismatic in a way Crowley isn’t, and that Zariel has just the right amount of nostalgia of their shared past Before, and the right amount of _let’s do this right now_, that Aziraphale finds his head spinning and agreeing to whatever Zariel wants—such as going Upstairs.

* * *

Crowley’s swagger is extra pronounced as he walks around his flat; he might even be _humming_. Dinner plans are being made, literally, as Crowley carts back groceries from his Bentley, along with potted flowers and candles. He probably won’t set out the latter two items, but maybe next time, because there’ll be a next time, and a time after that, and after that…!

Crowley’s feeling awfully fond just thinking about it, and even his hidden wings are excited about the prospect.

Someone _doesn’t_ knock on the door, and it opens at the edge of Crowley’s hearing. Scowling, Crowey strides to the front.

“_Hasssstur_,” he hisses. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh?” Hastur says with feigned innocence. He looks constipated instead, and demons don’t even excrete.

Crowley stalks forward. “Get out.”

Hastur backs up a step, head tilting up. “Ligur won’t leave Hell anymore because of _you_.”

Crowley scoffs. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t turn up _uninvited_.”

Hastur seethes. “You think you’re better than everyone else, _Crawley_. Getting too big for your damn boots.” He sneers. “Saw your _precious_ angel on my way up to Earth..._he _was going _Upstairs_.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, even as his stomach drops. An old wave of insecurity rushes in—because Crowley’s _Fallen_, and he’s not Zariel, and he could never show Aziraphale _angel_ things—and Crowley _hates_ Hastur for it.

“_Fuck_ off, Hastur.”

Hastur’s sneer deepens. “Oh, you _should_ believe me. Saw your precious _Aziraphale_ arm in arm with another angel. _Zariel_, I heard. Leaving you all alone here on Earth…”

A burst of anger rolls in with hurt and confusion, Crowley stamps his foot and hellfire bursts from the floor. Demons’ corporations die in hellfire...but not Crowley’s.

“This isn’t the sigil Odegra,” Hastur blusters, even as he backs away.

Crowley gives a lilting sort of smile, and the door behind Hastur swings open. “Out you go, my Duke Hastur.”

When Hastur doesn’t move immediately, Crowley sweeps his hand out and the hellfire erupts around the entire perimeter of his flat. He steps forward, through the flames—_they’re just warm, completely harmless to him_—and shoves Hastur back. The door slams shut in Hastur’s face.

“_I’m_ the one who uses hellfire to burn other demons!” Hastur shouts through the door.

Crowley spins on his heel, flames rising around him, filling the air with heat and yellow and orange, and leaving Crowley and his flat completely fine because _Crowley makes it so_.

_Fuck_, Crowley thinks, as things sink in. “_FUCK!_” he yells at the wall.

Aziraphale hasn’t _really_ gone up to Heaven, has he? Lying is a very demonic thing to do; Hastur could be lying. If Crowley goes up there and they’re waiting with _holy water_ again—

But what if they try hellfire on _Aziraphale _again?

Crowley sends his demonic senses _wide_—it’s how he’s always been able to find Aziraphale in all his tight spots, like the French revolution, or the London bombings.

Crowley can’t find him in London.

Crowley can’t find him in the UK, or even _France_. He’s about to go wider, when he remembers that _Aziraphale has a phone_.

Crowley curses and fumbles for his own. With a press, it starts calling Aziraphale. Crowley’s heart’s in his mouth as it rings.

The call picks up. “Crowley? Is that you?” comes Aziraphale’s voice.

Crowley sinks to his knees in relief. “Angel,” he breathes. “Where are you?”

“Oh, um, errrr, I’m busy right now with Zariel. We’re visiting some of the old gardens up in Heaven—”

Crowley’s heart starts racing all over again. “What if they _catch_ you?”

“Michael and Gabriel never go to the gardens!” Aziraphale protests. “And I can handle the others—there’s a reason She gave me that flaming sword in the first place.”

“A sword that you no longer have,” Crowley groans. “Oh, _please_, angel. I can’t stop you. I won’t. But you _better_ be safe or I’m heading up there myself!”

A sigh across the phone connection. “It’s worse than just church grounds,” comes Aziraphale’s worried voice. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. We have dinner plans,” he adds, sounding very proud of himself—

—and Crowley softens. “Yes. We have plans.”

“I’ll see you tonight, dear.” The call cuts.

Crowley gets maybe five minutes of food preparation before the anxiety creeps up again. He tries to read the cookbook but he soon goes cross-eyed.

He...can’t. Can’t focus on cooking something for his angel when he _knows_ where Aziraphale is. When he remembers that look on damn Gabriel’s face as he sentenced Aziraphale to die by hellfire. When he remembers how Sandalphon and Uriel stood by and did nothing. There was no trial, it wasn’t even _Falling_. Just hellfire, right up.

He’ll cook dinner with Aziraphale, he decides. He’ll have Aziraphale read—Aziraphale’s good at reading, and Crowley can do the cooking with an added demonic miracle or two to make sure it works out.

“A kept demon, these days, little brother?”

The cookbook drops from Crowley’s hands with a heavy thud. He spins around in time to see Satan finish materialising from the floor—_Lucifer_, rather, in his humanoid, human-sized form. His skin is pale, unlike the red he’d sported during the Apocalypse, and an eyebrow rises. “I see you’re growing your hair out like in the old days, Crawley.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. He crosses one leg over at the ankle and leans back against the kitchen counter. “Lucifer. You’ve cleaned up since I last saw you.”

Lucifer’s nostrils flare. “Oh, _yes_.” He takes a step forward. Everything darkens. Everything heats up. “We need to have a..._chat_.”

* * *

Aziraphale scans the gardens warily, but there are no archangels around; it’s mostly angels and cherubs, lounging around.

“No war to fight,” Zariel whispers. “Since holiday hours have already been logged, many are taking their holiday anyway, even though Gabriel’s said everything’s supposed to be exactly as before.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. He looks around at the too-bright greens and pinks and yellows, the pristine rows all the plants are set in, and the white-white stone benches. “It looks...exactly the same.”

Zariel laughs; it sounds like the tinkling of harps. “Of course. Why change something that’s perfect?”

Aziraphale sighs inwardly, his hand absently playing with the phone in his pocket, Crowley’s words still ringing in his ears. Zariel’s idea to visit had sounded interesting—Aziraphale had never had the time to just wander around Heaven; he usually reported directly to the Head Office. But now that he’s wandering around, well, the rest of it is exactly the same: neat to _perfection_, cold and all too bright.

Heaven’s not his home. It hasn’t been for a while.

“Well, it’s been nice,” he says to Zariel. “But I must return back to Earth.”

“What,_ already_?” Except it isn’t Zariel who says that.

With dread, Aziraphale turns to see Gabriel and Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon. _All of them_. He shots a betrayed look at Zariel, but Zariel’s bewildered too.

“Archangels _never_ come here,” they whisper in disbelief.

“Return to us,” Michael says. “And we will absolve all your past...misendeavours. Don’t worry about your demon. Down _There_ will be paying him a personal visit.”

Aziraphale frowns. “You mean Hastur?”

“_No_,” Sandalphon interrupts. “Satan! The Devil! The foulest fiend of all!”

Aziraphale pales. Last time, only the _Antichrist_ could stop Satan. Crowley alone—oh dear, oh _fuck_. Aziraphale turns sharply and starts running, one of three sets of wings flapping to hasten his speed.

The Archangels are shouting something as they run after him. Aziraphale doesn’t bother with the escalators: he simply drops straight down, through the dimensions right down to Earth. He imagines Crowley’s flat, and then he’s _there_, above it.

Crowley’s penthouse flat is on fire. _Hellfire_. Aziraphale pulls himself back from landing, wings flapping to get away from the flames.

There’s a sharp bang, and a huge snake comes through the roof, quickly followed by a demon. The snake turns back into Crowley; with dread, Aziraphale realises that the other demon is _Satan_.

“_Well_,” Gabriel smirks, coming to rest alongside Aziraphale in the air. “A little hellfire’s not going to get between you and your beloved _demon_, is it?”

Aziraphale’s hands curl into fists.

“You’re a _bastard_,” Crowley scowls at Satan.

“That would make _you_ a bastard too, dear brother,” Satan says. “Curious how you survive the hellfire. Like myself.”

Crowley scoffs. “Not that hard at all, _brother_.”

Satan tilts his head. “I have a little theory about your _bath_ the other day.”

“_Month_,” Crowley snorts, giving a dark grin. “Getting forgetful in your old age?”

“A day on one of the many planets you hung in the sky,” Satan says. “Raphael, archangel of healing. It would only be _you_ who could heal themself from the burn of holy water.”

“_Raphael?_” Gabriel repeats dumbly. “But that can’t be—he’s supposed to be..._out_ there…”

Aziraphale’s more focused on the _healing_ part. All those miracles Crowley’s done in the past six-thousand years, beyond their Arrangement. Crowley has _always_ been a little nice—but this—it all clicks into place.

Satan raises a hand in the air, and dark clouds gather right above them. It makes the hellfire seem all the more ghastly. “Let’s see how you deal with rain of holy water, shall we?”

Crowley sneers and throws his arms up. “Oh, try your _best_, Lucifer.”

“_NO!_” Aziraphale cries. “Get away from him, you _devil!_” A second pair of wings enter the mortal plane and Aziraphale swoops, dead set on Satan. He draws all his divinity around him, forming a gold light shield, wings wrapping around himself, and plunges into the flames of hellfire.

*

_SHIT SHIT SHIT ANGEL!_ Who the fuck _cares_ about his arsehole of a fucking brother. With a press of his hand, Crowley kills the hellfire, but he’s a little too late, and Aziraphale’s beautiful white wings are _burning_ and _disintegrating._ Aziraphale careens, and Satan—_Satan_, not Lucifer—neatly sidesteps from Aziraphale’s path, leaving Aziraphale to crash onto the roof. Crowley shoots across the rooftop to Aziraphale’s side in a thousandth of a moment. His own wings flare out, black, shielding Aziraphale from the others.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Crowley swoops in on a fallen, hurt, Aziraphale. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


“_Angel, angel_,” Crowley says like a prayer. He runs his hands over Aziraphale’s wings, dissipating the clinging flames, dissipating the charred feathers, the charred muscle.

Aziraphale manages a grin. “I’m back a little early for our date.” He frowns a little. “_You’re_ Raphael?”

“I _can’t_ stop time right now!” Crowley says, feeling half delirious as he pours all his energy into healing Aziraphale’s wings. The problem is that Aziraphale is _divinity_ and Crowley’s a _demon_.

But Crowley’s also a fallen _angel_, and so he pulls as much of the divinity remaining in him to build up Aziraphale’s wings again.

Aziraphale winces, and Crowley softens his touch at that particular area of Aziraphale’s wings.

“Gabriel and the others are here too. They heard it as well.”

Crowley literally has no energy left to worry. “Fine,” he just says. “As long as you don’t go jumping into hellfire in the future.” And it’s with that same no-fucks-left-to-give look in his eyes that he turns back at Satan.

Satan is smirking. “And here I thought the Principality Aziraphale was _immune_ to hellfire just like you, Crawley.”

“It’s _Crowley_,” Aziraphale snaps, getting to his feet, and Crowley’s heart fills.

“Ah. You played a trick on Gabriel, didn’t you?” Satan says with a laugh. “I could almost _approve_, brother.”

Gabriel and the other archangels land, and Crowley immediately shifts so that he’s between them and Aziraphale.

“It’s a family gathering,” Satan says, raising his arms.

“You _knew_ where Raphael was this whole _time_?” Gabriel says sharply.

“And you forgot your own brother, Gabriel?” Satan says. “Crawley’s been by Aziraphale’s side for _thousands_ of years, and you never even _noticed_.”

“Oh, and you _did_,” Michael says coldly, sarcastically.

Crowley’s fucking unamused at both sides talking about past-him when he’s standing _right there_. “It’s _Crowley_ now,” he says sharply. “And this family _sucks_. And you couldn’t even be a father to the Antichrist, Satan.” Crowley sneers, all cocky and ready. “A _human_ defeated you.”

Sandalphon laughs, and the expression on Satan’s face darkens.

“Oh, yes, back to our conversation, aren’t we, little brother.” He smiles charismatically, but his eyes are dark. “You know, Michael, we could start the War anyway. How about it? We could shake hands right now.”

“And _where_ will you be holding this war?” Crowley says sharply. 

Satan spreads his hands. “Where else?”

“Say, angel,” Crowley says to Aziraphale. “Could you miracle a water gun filled with holy water? And point it at that bastard? I have the hellfire sorted.”

Aziraphale nods grimly. “I can.” And he does. It looks like one of Warlock’s ridiculously big water blasters. Satan’s jaw tightens.

Crowley turns back to the others. At the slide of his foot, an arc of hellfire erupts from the ground. The other angels stiffen, and Sandalphon sneers while Uriel eyes the flames.

  


> Artwork by Stan: _Choose your fighter!_ Aziraphale with a holy water gun and Crowley with hellfire. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


“So,” Crowley says. “How about it?”

“There’ll be no war without the people who want war,” Aziraphale adds, cocking his water gun at Satan.

Sandalphon chokes, and Gabriel scowls.

Crowley sparks flame across his fingers, juggling the hellfire back and forth between his hands. He’s mightily enjoying this. “Well? Aren’t we going to fight, my _siblings_? If you can’t leave us alone, we’ll _make_ you.”

“Raphael is a healer,” Gabriel declares. “He would _never_ kill anyone.”

Crowley sneers. “Wrong.”

“We’re here to have a good time,” Aziraphale says. “And I _won’t_ be letting _anyone_ attack Crowley, least of all _you_, Gabriel.”

“And if anyone _dares_ touch Aziraphale, well, death would be _merciful_.”

Satan’s eyes darken; the archangels bristle.

“So just head Down, now,” Aziraphale tells Satan.

“—and fuck off back to Heaven,” Crowley tells the archangels.

“Your own protector angel, how _cute_,” Satan drawls. He says _cute_ as one would say _pitiful_. He tosses his head. “Well. I’m _clearly_ outnumbered, aren’t I? How _unfair_. Do drop by Hell, will you, _Angel_? This is all quite boring.”

Gabriel takes a step forward. “Who are you calling _boring_?”

“I thought we were _family_,” Crowley says louder. “I’m _your_ little brother, _Lucifer_, Michael. I’m your _older_ brother, Gabriel. Why won’t you let your own brother go on a date with Aziraphale for the next eternity and in peace?”

Satan makes a disgusted face. “_Peace_? How horrid. How _high_ you’ve risen, dear brother. I’ll have to bathe in hellfire once I return.” And with that, Satan drops away.

“Can the Fallen _unfall_?” Uriel muses, eyes fixed on Crowley.

“Yeah, nah, no thanks,” Crowley says. “Angels aren’t about being _good_. You’re all about faith to _Her_, which, naaaah.”

“What about those rumours about Raphael _healing_ humans?” Uriel presses.

Crowley blusters, “What? that’s not possible- _Raphael_ as you knew him doesn’t exist anymore, it’s just me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale, the traitor, starts laughing. He rests a hand on Crowley’s arm. “I _knew_ you were such a _nice_ demon.”

Gabriel’s looking between them, confused and conflicted, like he can’t decide whether Crowley is the most evil demon ever, who must be smited, or if Crowley’s _Raphael_, his dear old long lost brother.

Michael rubs her temples. “_Well_, now we can update our records of where you’ve been, Crowley-who-was-Raphael. And to think I _missed_ you.”

Crowley tries not to feel guilty. “I only ever asked _questions_,” he mutters to himself.

“Back Up,” Michael orders the other archangels. She sighs heavily, “The damn _paperwork_…”

Crowley watches them until they disappear. The moment they do, he turns to Aziraphale, eyes running up and down his form. “Angel.”

Aziraphale smirks. “So. A date for all eternity? You’re so _sweet_, Crowley.”

Crowley scowls, but there’s no heat. “You’re a _prat_, Angel.” He looks around at the destruction of his own flat’s rooftop, and fixes everything with a snap of his fingers.

“Shall we start our date early?” Aziraphale grins, and how could Crowley _ever_ resist that?

They turn to the stairs heading down, when someone else calls out—

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley turns to the approaching angel, stomach turning and insecurities rushing back in.

It’s Zariel.

* * *

Aziraphale’s anxiety shoots up as Zariel approaches them.

“_Azi_,” they say. “Are you alright? I didn’t know—archangels _never_ go to the gardens.”

“Well, clearly they do when the occasion arises,” Aziraphale sharply.

Zariel shoots him a hurt look. “We could—”

“Zariel,” Aziraphale says sternly. “What are your intentions with me? What about all your other friends?”

Zariel’s bottom lip trembles.

Aziraphale doesn’t budge. “_Well_?”

They hang their head. “I’m not talking to them.”

“And why ever not?”

“I said...I told Mariel that his moustache looked ridiculous, and had been for centuries. And then he assigned me to Earth in payback.”

Aziraphale scowls. “Then go back Up There and say sorry, dear.”

“It’s not that easy!”

“Sometimes, it _is_, if you mean it,” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley. Crowley’s eyebrows raise minutely back at Aziraphale.

“Bring them some wine. Chocolates,” Crowley says in a bored tone. “Take them on a trip around Earth, and you’ll be best mates again in no time.”

“Oh, those are such wonderful ideas, Crowley!” He leans his head back on Crowley’s shoulder, and inwardly thrills when Crowley reddens. Knowing full well that Zariel is watching, Aziraphale manoeuvres Crowley’s arm around his waist.

_Crowley’s mine_, Aziraphale thinks, as he holds Zariel’s gaze.

Zariel looks away first. “You think so?” they say.

“Yes.”

Zariel sighs. “You really do like him…”

“Oh, yes, you can tell _everyone_ that,” Aziraphale replies. He snorts. “Gossip might be exactly what you need to make up with your friends.”

Zariel half turns. “Will I see you again?”

Aziraphale glances up at Crowley.

“Yes,” Crowley says. “But send Aziraphale some advance notice. It wouldn’t do to..._interrupt_ anything. We could accidentally hit you with hellfire.”

Zariel pales. “Right. Of course. Good day, Azi. Good day, demon Crowley.” With that, Zariel leaves.

Aziraphale turns round to face Crowley. “Interrupt something, dear?” he asks innocently, looking at him through his lashes and biting his bottom lip.

“Ngrk,” Crowley says. “_Angel_,” he whines, just a little. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Aziraphale laughs. He tugs Crowley along, and they head back inside, wings tucking away regretfully.

“So, what shall we do before dinner?” Aziraphale asks.

“Was going to _make_ you dinner,” Crowley mutters. “A long slow roast.”

Aziraphale’s heart flutters. “_Oh_. That’s a lovely effort.”

Crowley gives a short smile. “Unfortunately, that bastard had to show up.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale draws Crowley closer. “You never told me you were Raphael. _You_ made the stars.”

“I _told_ you I made Alpha Centauri,” Crowley scowls. “Didn’t I?”

“Oh—but not all the _rest_.”

“Gabriel made all the boring ones,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale snorts. “I can imagine so.” They head into the kitchen, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows goes up at all the scattered groceries, and the cookbook open and dog-eared. “Need a little help, dear?”

Crowley saunters over. “If you may.”

“I may,” Aziraphale agrees.

After they begin the cooking, and place what they need into the oven for that two-hour bake, the two of them head back to the sitting room. Aziraphale heads straight for the books left on the couch.

“Angel,” Crowley says abruptly.

Aziraphale looks up. “Yes, dear?”

Crowley half-circles him. “Are you sure you’re alright after that—_hellfire_? I’m—I didn’t _mean_ for it to catch you too.” His eyes rake down Aziraphale’s body.

Aziraphale soaks up all Crowley’s attention. “Hmm, oh, I’m _fine_, no need to worry,” he says.

Expectedly, Crowley’s brows draws up in worry. “If you could—bring out your wings?”

Aziraphale looks up at him through his lashes. “Only if you bring out yours.” He reaches out and pulls off Crowley’s sunglasses.

“If you insist, angel,” Crowley says. He shrugs off his jacket, and deep black wings emerge a beat later.

Aziraphale is immediately enchanted, now that he can _look_. Crowley obligingly brings a wingtip over for Aziraphale to touch.

“Now _yours_, angel.”

Aziraphale flushes, snapping from his stroking of Crowley’s wing—at least Crowley looks a little red too. He turns around, sitting down on the nest of pillows and bedding in front of the sofa and lets his wings out.

Crowley hums as he settles behind Aziraphale, a hand brushing over the wings. It sends _tingles_ down Aziraphale’s spine. “Could be better,” Crowley says.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Crowley grooming Aziraphale's wings. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


Aziraphale tries to sit still, he _does_, as Crowley fixes up the minor injuries and charred feathers left from his earlier haphazard healing. Aziraphale can’t help but tremble, though, as Crowley’s fingers start _grooming_, shifting misaligned feathers, brushing off the ether dust. To Aziraphale’s utter mortification, a soft, purring sounds grows in his chest.

“_Crowley_,” he says, voice coming out quite high-pitched. “If you _keep_ doing that—”

“Doing what?” Crowley says, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s feathers.

Aziraphale’s wings flutter, and he starts squirming. “Oh, you _fiend_, you know what you’re doing.”

Crowley hums noncommittally, and Aziraphale huffs, standing up abruptly. He turns around, fixing Crowley with a glare.

“It feels—oh _you know_.” Aziraphale tilts his head and changes tact. “It was very _nice_ and _lovely_ of you, dearheart. I think you’ve become more and more _good_ each day.”

“I’m not _nice_,” Crowley narrows his eyes, standing up too.

“_Well_, but you’re so good to me. And all the children, and all those who come to the bookshop for _help_ and…”

Crowley flushes. For a beat, Aziraphale hopes Crowley will crowd him against the wall, or tackle him to the ground, but he _doesn’t_. Inwardly, Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Must he do _everything_ now?

_Well, perhaps it is my fault_, Aziraphale has to admit to himself. Crowley has always been a few steps ahead, _too fast_, and it was a small word from Aziraphale that had him pulling back, and it’s not like Crowley can _read_ Aziraphale’s mind.

“Come here, dear,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley saunters warily forward.

Aziraphales takes his hands. “Now, dear, if it’s a date, are we allowed to kiss _before_ it ends?”

Crowley’s lips part, eyes fixed on Aziraphale. “Ngk,” he says.

Aziraphale takes that as a _yes_. He rests his arms over Crowley’s shoulders and tugs him down before kissing him. Crowley reacts in a flash, kissing back firmly, _hungrily_. He rests an arm on Aziraphale’s back and tilts Aziraphale backwards for a stomach-lurching moment, until they’re both horizontal on the nest of blankets and pillows. Aziraphale feels _very_ warm, and he squirms a little under Crowley’s rather reverent look.

“I could _worship_ you,” Crowley breathes.

“I would rather be lovers,” Aziraphale says promptly.

Crowley looks dazed. “You—you mean that, angel? It’s not too fast?”

“I’m not scared anymore,” Aziraphale admits. “Forever and ever. Now, dear, if you _please_—”

Crowley needs no more prompting, and he leans down, giving Aziraphale a deep kiss. The air swells with all of Crowley’s unconditional love, and it’s heavy and intoxicating. Aziraphale greedily kisses back, wrapping his arms and legs around him.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Crowley leans down to Aziraphale... Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


“You’re so beautiful, angel,” Crowley whispers against his lips. His long black hair curtains down, his black wings a blanket.

Aziraphale flushes. “No, my dear—”

“You _are_,” Crowley insists. He kisses Aziraphale again, then his check, his nose, the skin beneath his ear.

Aziraphale squirms, an _ugggggh_ escaping his lips when Crowley starts nibbling on his ear.

They don’t make _that_ kind of Effort—that’s for _next time_. Instead, as their lips touch, their souls ripple beyond their skin, and Aziraphale feels as though he’s wrapped inside Crowley’s heart—and Crowley inside his—and the entire _universe_ exists where their souls mesh. Every star, every galaxy, every pinprick of light.

And it’s beyond beautiful. It’s beyond divine. Because It _Is._ And as their souls slowly settle back into their human shapes, Aziraphale raises a hand to trace Crowley’s face and feels perfect.

*

The night proceeds _stunningly_ well, in Crowley’s expert opinion. He has his angel fed and thoroughly kissed (along with those _other_ activities), but it’s getting later and later, and Crowley’s body clock is annoyingly telling him he should _sleep_, but he doesn’t want to part, not even to another room.

But in the end, he has to say, “Angel, help me?”

Aziraphale gives him a gamely smile. “Yes, of course—”

By which Crowley means to help carry even more pillows and blankets over to sitting room with the heating pad and the rest. Once everything is set up to Crowley’s liking, he yawns widely.

“Ah. Er. Crowley?”

Crowley immediately looks at Aziraphale. “Yes? Do you need a lift, or more books?”

Aziraphale gives him an exasperated smile, and to Crowley’s utter, utter surprise, Aziraphale joins him under the blankets.

“I just wanted to see what all the _fuss_ was about,” Aziraphale says primly.

Crowley winces. “Angel, you don’t _have_ to. I know you love reading—”

“Oh, I’m going to do that too.” A book flies over from the couch into Aziraphale’s hands. He nudges a few more pillows, so that he’s half inclined upright.

Crowley huffs and rolls his eyes. With a snap of his fingers, the lights dim but for the reading light around Aziraphale.

“Now settle in, Crowley, so that I may read to you.”

“_Presumptuous_ of you,” Crowley drawls, but he shifts closer, on his side, so that his legs are tangled with Aziraphale’s, and he has an arm thrown across Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale’s all soft and warm and firm and solid, and Crowley shifts around until he’s comfortably wrapped around Aziraphale. Yawning, he closes his eyes.

“_Comfortable_?” Aziraphale says, voice fond.

“Yes, dear _lover_,” Crowley says archly, eyes still closed.

Aziraphale huffs—Crowley can feel the heat across Aziraphale’s skin as he blushes, which is _adorable_, damn it.

Aziraphale starts reading. It’s a book about animals that mate for life, _definitely_ not one of the books Crowley’d acquired for Aziraphale, the _bastard_.

But the message is clear. It doesn’t matter how many _Zariels_ come. Aziraphale wants Crowley, and he wants him for life.

And Crowley? He can definitely live like this for the rest of eternity.

  


> Artwork by Stan: Aziraphale and Crowley lying in bed together, as Aziraphale reads. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord).

  


  


* * *

## Epilogue

Crowley pulls a face when Ada starts admiring his garden. “_Don’t say nice things_,” Crowley says sharply, “you’ll make them weak!”

Ada pulls out her phone—which _works_—and does a quick google search. “_Apparently_ it’s good for them.”

Anathema nods. “She’s right.” She hums as she examines the plants with a rather professional interest.

Crowley splutters, and gives Aziraphale a betrayed look when he starts laughing.

“It’s fine, dear,” Aziraphale says, a hand on Crowley’s arm to draw him away. “Why don’t you watch the children?”

The children are playing in the central clear space in the garden. He and Aziraphale have recently moved to the South Downs cottage, and Aziraphale had the _brilliant_ (NOT) idea of inviting over some old friends for lunch.

“NANNY!” Warlock shouts. “Can we have pizza?”

Crowley gives Warlock and the other kids a stern look. “Not at all,” he says. “Aziraphale has prepared quite a menu.”

Brian shrugs philosophically. “Next time, then.”

Wensleydale points at the big rock in the middle of the garden. “What’s that for?”

“_That_ is for naps,” Crowley says archly.

Pepper pulls a face. “Sounds uncomfortable.”

“Let’s see who can climb it fastest!” Adam suggests. “Whoever loses has to help Mr. Fell cook!”

Resigned, Crowley pulls a lawn chair over into the sun and lounges, half dozing, as he watches the dastardly children come up with games around the garden. At the range of his senses, he feels Aziraphale inside the house with Anathema and Ada. Now if Adam would join them, all the _A’s_ would be together, Crowley thinks to himself. _Heh_.

Presently, the children drag him up to play, too, and Crowley shoots some perfunctory complaints before indulging them by turning into a huge snake, which delights them—the evil fearless kids that they are.

*

Aziraphale smiles fondly through the window at Crowley’s and the children’s antics. He _knew_ Crowley was good with kids.

“What—_how_?” Ada gapes at Crowley’s snake form.

Anathema pats her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ada. He’s just occult.”

“He’s lovely,” Aziraphale says happily. “Now, my dear, how can I convince you to write a book of prophecies?”

“I don’t know…” Anathema says.

Ada grins. “How about you make half of them up on purpose?”

“That would be quite fun,” Aziraphale agrees as he talks out the cutlery for lunch.

“Oh, take out another set,” Anathema interrupts. “Someone’s going to drop theirs.”

Aziraphale gives Anathema a _look_, and she flushes.

“I _suppose_,” she finally says.

Aziraphale hums, and the three of them start bringing the food to the table seating outside.

Everyone settles down, somewhat, and Crowley takes a seat by Aziraphale’s side. Crowley doesn’t eat, really, except from Aziraphale’s fingers as he is wont to do. Even with his dark glasses, Aziraphale can sense Crowley’s grand amusement and great affection.

And Aziraphale knows that they wholeheartedly belong together, all throughout spacetime.

  


> Artwork by Ofir: Crowley kissing Aziraphale's fingers. Rebloggable tumblr post [here](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/post/188287318538/aziraphale-looks-down-and-takes-another-piece-of%22)

  


  
  
  
_The End._  
  


* * *

## Footnotes

[1] Featuring Anne Bonny, Mary Read, John “Calico Jack” Rackham, and Pierre Bouspet.  
  


[2] After being driven around by a demon for over 80 years, the Bentley has, in fact, gained a semblance of sentience—as much as Crowley imagines it to have. Unfortunately—or fortunately—the Bentley has an unshakable love for Queen.  
  


[3] Stars can’t be seen in London, really, but what’s the point of demonic-miracle-powers if Crowley can’t use them to take the image of the stars and project them onto his bedroom ceiling?  
  


[4] Not to mention that Aziraphale frequently found it _amusing_ to make Crowley all scowly. A bit of a bastard, indeed.  
  


[5] However, he does tuck that information for later: Mr. Fell has been coming to his family’s barbershop for almost a hundred years looking exactly the same; since his grandfather, then his father, and then himself. They don’t ever _really_ cut Mr. Fell’s hair, nor shave him, but they do perform the motions. As his father told Antonio when the clippers were passed over: Mr. Fell is here for _our_ conversation and a kindly ear. However, Antonio thinks his family would delighted to hear that Mr. Fell has been..._friends_ with Mr. Crowley for 6000 years!  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> From the author: Please send love/comment to the artists separately to show your appreciation for their lovely work 😘 :
> 
> [Stan](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com) with their [social-media links](https://linktr.ee/stancils.stencils). Rebloggable tumblr [art post here](https://stancils-stencils.tumblr.com/post/188292529720/here-are-the-pictures-for-the-good-omens-discord) ❤️
> 
> Ofir on [tumblr@scribblepuffs](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/scribblepuffss/), with their rebloggable tumblr [artwork here!](https://scribblepuffs.tumblr.com/post/188287318538/aziraphale-looks-down-and-takes-another-piece-of) ❤️


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